


What touch cannot wear smooth

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Belts, Desk Sex, Dom/sub, Exes, Impact Play, M/M, Season 3, cock spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Jon doesn't want Elias's help. He doesn't need it, not anymore.But the Circus left Jon soft and smooth. And he wants to be marked.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61
Collections: The Magnus Intermission: A Weekly Hiatus Prompt Fest





	What touch cannot wear smooth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts "Should old acquaintance be forgot" and "100 words of regret."

"You can't forget their touch." 

Elias's tone is mild, like it barely matters, like he's commenting on a small error Jon made in a budget request or inquiring about his commute. It's infuriating, always has been, even if Jon once fooled himself into thinking he found it endearing. Because he thought he knew what was underneath it, the flashes of emotion the flat words hid. 

But now? It feels like a taunt. If Jon didn't need Elias's signature on the reimbursement forms, he would've left then. But he can't, because he needs Elias. And Elias damn well knows it.

"Would you stop reading my mind?" Jon crosses his arms and taps his foot pointedly, glaring at a spot above Elias's head. It's not that he can't meet Elias's eyes. He can and has. He simply doesn't want to, doesn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction of his treasured eye contact. 

"I'm not. You've never been any good at hiding your feelings, Jon." A hint of fondness—no, _amusement_ —creeps into his voice, though when Jon dares a glance at his face there's no trace of a smile. "It's charming, in its way, if not terribly convenient. But we make do with what we have."

"With what we—" Jon laughs bitterly. "With me, you mean. Getting myself kidnapped and maimed and—" The words choke him, and he presses his lips together stubbornly. No need to demonstrate Elias's point further by ranting. Or breaking down horribly, though Jon has so far managed to avoid that. 

"That isn't what I meant, Jon." 

Elias gets to his feet, and Jon takes an involuntary step back, his hands coming up to shield him though he's still not sure Elias is truly a threat. Only that he wants there to be space between them, space so he can think, sort through the muddled mess of his life without Elias's knowing stare. Or at least space to focus on the things he can do something about.

"The form," Jon says sharply, holding out his hand. Elias ignores him, brushing past the hand to grasp his shoulder with a familiarity he no longer has any right to. Jon tries to shrug him off, but the motion is weak. His heart pounds rabbit fast in his chest. 

"Jon." Elias's grip tightens; Jon struggles not to sway towards him. "I can help you. Let me."

"Help me?" Jon's voice cracks, but he doesn't much care. Elias can read his every thought anyway, can't he? "What, by not rescuing me for a month? By sending me on a wild chase, not telling me what I need to know? By lying to me for _years_ —"

"Jon." That tone of voice is achingly familiar, and it stops the panicked flow of words. It's sickening, how Elias has primed him to respond to this. Sickening how he's primed himself to want to give in, even now. "Hand me your belt." 

"No," Jon says, and the protest is so very weak as his hands move to obey. They're shaking as he does it, and he knows it's not from fear. Or at least not fear of Elias, the devil he knows and wishes he could let go. 

"The Stranger cannot unmake you. I know what you are. And what you need." He leans in close, and god damn him, Jon lets him. Elias's lips press lightly against his cheekbone, and his teeth nip at Jon's ear. "Bend over. And I'll show you how truly you're marked, what their touch cannot wear smooth."

"How is this going to help?" Jon asks, but it's not a protest. Worse than that, it's not even an idle question. Instead, it tingles along his tongue, eliciting a shiver from Elias as he takes the belt from Jon's unresisting grip. 

"It's a reminder," Elias replies, pressing a hand against Jon's unresisting back and bending Jon over his desk. When he pulls down Jon's trousers and pants, Jon shudders, and fails to speak. Of course he does, because he's always been so very malleable in Elias's hands. And even if he hasn't the faintest what Elias is going on about...Christ, he wants this. 

"Get on with it," Jon says, steeling himself as he buries his face in his arms. Waiting for the familiar bloom of pain, a touch that is nothing like the soft wax figures that surrounded him for weeks. 

"Gladly."

The first blow is harder that Jon expects, painting a bright, stinging line across his arse. He jerks against the desk, before steadying himself, adjusting his position so he's braced on his elbows with his hands gripping the far edge. Then the belt comes down again, across the back of his thighs. It takes everything to remain in place. 

"Good." Elias rubs the buckle of the belt against the welt along Jon's upper thighs. "You haven't forgotten, then." 

Jon bites his tongue, though he isn't sure why. Even if he's agreed to this, mad as it is, that doesn't mean he owes Elias his silence anymore. Elias hasn't earned it, and he doesn't deserve it, not when he's never been the man Jon thought he admired. More than admired, though that's a thought he shies away from. Another time. When he has more time. 

Another lash of the belt, and again, and again. Each new one lights a sharp and wonderful line across his smooth skin. Elias has always been so methodical, careful to cover inch after inch of skin, before crossing it again. Leaving Jon unable to sit without feeling it, throbbing for days after and leaving him aching for the next time, and the next. 

"I'd forgotten how much you can take," Elias says, as the belt whips down again. More rapidly now, though there's still a rhythm to the strokes, one that draws whimpers from Jon's unresisting lips. 

He shouldn't like this as much as he does, though Elias has told him time and again it's nothing to be ashamed of. How wonderful he looks with his skin red and aching, how beautiful his cries are. There is no reason to deny what he wants, the pain sparking again and again across his nerves, bringing him a pleasure, a satisfaction he chases even now. 

"How terrible, to want to peel away this perfect skin." Elias grasps one cheek of Jon's arse, squeezing hard and making Jon cry out far too loudly, before biting his lip to cut it off. Elias massages the other cheek as well, belt buckle digging into the sore flesh, leaving Jon unable to keep from pushing into the desk, the wood rubbing tantalizingly on his half-hard cock. 

"I don't think they much cared about what was underneath it," Jon mumbles, staring down at the desk, trying to catch his breath, catch the nerve to tell Elias to stop. But it's too late; Elias's hands are gone, and the belt breaks across his skin yet again.

"No, the Stranger is all about appearances." The belt crosses the previous lines, and Jon's cock throbs and jumps, but Elias only presses on, brings it down again. "We know to look deeper." 

"We?" Jon manages, before Elias speeds up. His fingers tighten around the edge of the desk; he can taste blood on his tongue, and forces himself to relax. Focusing on the new pain, the new marks drawn in leather and bruises and swollen flesh across his skin, and not the memories the blood brings. A kiss, a soft laugh, and eventually a gag. To protect him, Elias said, drawing a finger long his stretched lips. Jon didn't protest then, let Elias have him however he wanted. 

Just like he's doing now. 

The thought is enough to send him stumbling back from the desk, tripping over the trousers bunched around his ankles and catching himself against a bookshelf. He stands there, panting and struggling to regain composure, hard as it is with his cock hanging out, showing exactly how little he objects to what's happened.

A smile curls on Elias's lips, one Jon wants to call cruel, and it is that. But it's also something more, darker and deeper. It makes him shiver, and tip his head back to show his neck before he realizes what he's doing. Before he can say anything, Elias flicks the belt out again; his aim is as perfect as ever. Jon moans as pain sparks in a sharp strike along his cock. And then again, and again, as he clings to the bookshelf and tries to pretend he wants this to end. 

It does, with only one more flick of the belt, sending Jon spilling shamefully onto himself and Elias's expensive rug. His cock throbs, and it's too much, not the first time but somehow so much more than all the times before. The feeling only intensifies when Elias steps closer and kneels at his feet. He takes Jon's softening cock into his mouth, and all Jon can do is cling desperately to a shelf as Elias sucks and licks and lavishes attention on it, driving all thought from Jon's brain. 

But it can't last. The rush fades, the bliss that once took its place turned bitter, leaving Jon only with regret. And a hateful shred of hope, of poorly banked desire to join Elias at his desk, to settle in his arms and take the comfort even now Jon knows Elias wouldn't deny him. He's been so good, after all. He's always so damn good. 

It's enough. Enough to make him set himself to rights as best he can, though his hands shake. Everything in him shakes, and he knows Elias might yet calm it, but he doesn't want that.

"Thank you for the reminder," Jon says stiffly, taking a step towards the door. "I needed that. To remember exactly what you are." 

Elias smiles that irritating, condescending smile, and gently shakes his head. "We're not finished."

"I'm sorry, did I fail to get you off? How utterly crass of me. Maybe you can submit a complaint to HR." Jon takes another step back, but he doesn't look away from Elias. He doesn't want his back to him. Or maybe he just can't look away.

"You're trembling, Jon." Elias is pulling out his cock, sitting in his chair next to the desk and leaving him on full display. Jon shouldn't look, though it doesn't matter if he does. It's nothing he hasn't seen before. If Elias wants to have a wank, well, at least he's not tormenting someone while he does that.

"I'm not." 

Jon reaches out for something else to cling to, but there's nothing here in the center of Elias's office. Maybe that's what Elias wanted, tricking him into moving, leaving him off balance. He needs to move. He needs to leave

"Come here." 

Elias's hand wraps around his cock, and his eyes flutter and stir up memories Jon has tried to forget. Ones that were so hard to forget, trapped and alone and waiting for a rescue, even as he wanted to reject them. Still does, even as he sees those half-lidded eyes drift to him, and hears that familiar hitch of breath

"Why should I?" 

The question is bluster, but Elias answers regardless, with a breathy moan as his hand tightens around his cock, stroking just like he once showed Jon.

"Because you want to. You're terrified."

"Because you of," Jon spits back. Frozen still, gaze flicking from Elias's face to his cock, red and waiting for Jon to take it between his lips, to seek the comfort of Elias's hands in his hair and his legs tight around Jon. 

"Yes." 

"You think there's anything you can do to help?" Jon hates the longing he hears in his voice. The bitterness that isn't quite enough to cut it.

"There is no true escape from terror." Elias's hand stills on his cock; his eyes lock with Jon's. "All you can do is pick your fear, and master it."

For a moment, Jon simply stares at him. Elias stares back. He's no longer moving, and neither is Jon. Where would he go? It's all Elias, and he's trapped, and his words are meaningless but Jon can't help but run over them again and again. Each another blow Elias strikes against him, as Jon wonders if there's a point, if he knows. 

If Elias is right. About Jon. About everything. 

But he can't be. He can't.

"What are you waiting for?" It's not the question Jon should ask, but he hasn't figured out what that is yet. Only that he needs to escape. Needs Elias to let him go. 

"I'm waiting for you to finish," Elias says, taking his hand off his cock. Leaving it there, a taunt and an invitation, and Jon's lips work to find the refusal. 

"You'll be waiting a long time," he says, finally taking another wavering step back, his hand hitting the doorknob, curling around it for the fragile certainty that there is a way out. 

"We'll see about that," Elias says. Then he nods to Jon, then tucks his still hard cock back into his trousers, shifting his chair back behind his desk as Jon watches in astonishment. When Elias fails to speak, fails to look up again, Jon takes his chance. 

He flees.

There's nowhere to go, nowhere but the Archives or his empty flat, and he wants neither of them now. So instead he strides blindly towards an unused storage closet, fumbling for his keys and ducking inside. Only when he's in the quiet dark does he finally sink to the floor, struggling against a wave of nausea. And worse, a thread of desire to turn back. 

His hand drifts to his arse, slipping beneath the fabric of his trousers to dig into one welt. No one is here to hear his gasp. And it does nothing to relieve the tension that is somehow still radiating through him. Why is he still on edge, when Elias was the one left hanging? 

He takes another breath, and his fingers dig in harder. Trying not to think about memories cut into skin. About whether he will go back. 

If he wants to see.


End file.
